


Questions Without Answers

by who_is_sabrina



Category: 6 Underground (2019)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23870605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/who_is_sabrina/pseuds/who_is_sabrina
Summary: Seven knows they're not really supposed to ask questions. But he's curious.Snippets of conversation in which Seven continues to ask questions, and One continues to be unobliging.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 133





	Questions Without Answers

"I think he's gonna shoot you," Three declared.

"Nah, he won't." Seven set his drink on the table and leaned back into the couch.

"Punch you in the face, then," Two suggested.

Seven tilted his head, considering it. "Guess that could happen," he said. "But really, sometimes he doesn't mind. I can tell."

"Who doesn't mind what?" Five asked, approaching the rest of the group. She finished pulling out her hair tie and sat down on the couch beside Four, letting her hair hang down around her shoulders.

"We're talking about what One's gonna do," Four explained, "since Seven keeps asking him questions about his past, you know? Three says he'll shoot him eventually, and Two says he's gonna punch him in the face."

Five considered this, running a hand through her hair, looking pensive. "I don't know," she said. "I might be with Three on this."

Three made a triumphant little noise and grinned cheekily at Two, who rolled her eyes.

"What do you think?" Five asked Four.

"Dunno," he replied with a quick shrug. "I reckon he would've shot him before, but... he's changed, hasn't he?" He took a sip of his drink and studied the amber liquid carefully. "Cleavers."

"Exactly," Seven agreed. "And honestly, he doesn't seem to mind all that much. Most of the time he says nothing, changes the subject, or gives a very vague and unrevealing answer. Every now and then he'll straight up tell me he's not gonna answer. But I have yet to see him actually get upset."

Three scoffed. "Okay, well, you can keep asking him all you want, but I'm not gonna try that. He almost shot me in the head once for visiting my mother."

A small crease appeared between Two's eyebrows. Seven looked thunderstruck.

Three shrugged. "He didn't, though."

Seven shook his head. "That's messed up."

"That's One," Five said. "You never know what to expect from him. He can really be a cold-hearted bastard."

"A cold-hearted bastard?" One echoed, striding into the room, eyes on his phone screen as he scrolled through who knew what. "You wouldn't be talking about me, would you?"

"No," Three said immediately.

One raised his eyebrows, though his gaze was still glued to his screen. He plopped himself into the last remaining spot, on the couch next to Seven. "Why not?" he asked. "I am a cold-hearted bastard," he said seriously.

Seven chuckled quietly.

"Oh, yeah," Four agreed with a grin. "That's why you came back for me on Rovach's yacht, yeah?"

"And why you don't stop me from seeing my mother anymore," Three pitched in.

Two smirked. "And why you don't stop _me_ from seeing his mother."

One sighed wearily and lowered his phone. "Are you guys finished? Because we have some actual work to do."

* * *

Seven glanced at the altimeter, then said abruptly, "Why Scottish?"

One cast him a quick sideways glance, brow furrowed. "What?"

"At the plant. Why not, I dunno, English or French or something?"

One frowned, then flicked the switch to open the intercom channel to the middle of the plane. "Hey, Five?" he asked levelly. "Wanna come up here? I think Seven's having a stroke. He's just speaking a bunch of nonsense words." He flicked the intercom off and continued to watch the open sky in front of them pointedly.

"Ignore him, Amelia!" Seven called back.

"I always do!" she responded, her voice muffled but audible through the cockpit door.

Seven laughed lightly, re-adjusting his position in his chair. "I'm talking about the power plant in Turgistan," he elaborated. "When we used fake accents and identities to get access."

"You mean when you used a horrible fake accent that almost made them need an Eight and a Nine? I remember."

"Yeah, that time," Seven conceded with a grin. "How come you used a Scottish accent? Kind of a random one. Did you know a Scottish person before you... you know, died?" One said nothing, so Seven continued taking random stabs in the dark. "Did you have a Scottish relative? Watch a lot of Scottish TV? Spend time in Scotland?"

"Yeah, I lived there for a couple years."

Seven turned to look at One so fast that he felt something in his neck pop. "You- _what?_ "

"Mmhmm." One nodded while Seven rubbed his neck, feeling like he had fallen into some kind of alternate universe where One behaved like a normal person with an actual life. "Learned how to play the bagpipes, too. Won a regional competition."

For the briefest of instants, a mixture of surprise and confusion washed over Seven. And then he laughed, unsure whether he was more irritated or amused. "C'mon, man," he chided, shaking his head. "You ever gonna tell me one truthful thing about yourself?"

One glanced over at him, grinning too. "Yeah, that's never gonna happen."

* * *

There was a lot of silence involved.

Seven had always heard that silence was a good interviewing technique. You ask someone something, but they give you a short answer? Just wait. Be silent. Be expectant. After a while, the silence will make them so uncomfortable that they'll feel compelled to talk. It worked, with a fair amount of people. But One was not one of those people.

"You've been flying planes for a while?" Seven asked, taking his eyes off the road for a brief moment to look at One in the passenger seat.

"Mmhmm."

There was a shriek of laughter from the very back of the van, where Four and Five were attempting to play some kind of card game. Seven glanced in the rear-view mirror. Two, who was seated behind him, shifted slightly in her sleep. Three, seated behind One, adjusted his position and stared out of the window absently.

"Okay." Seven nodded, encouraged that One had at least responded. "How long?" he asked.

"A while."

Seven nodded again, and said nothing. He could wait One out. Maybe he would elaborate, eventually. But several minutes passed while his curiosity and anticipation grew, and One was just as calm and unbothered as ever. Seven tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. There was still a chance the silence would eventually unnerve One and prompt him to talk - if not about flying, at least about _something_.

Another silent minute passed, and then-

"Fuck you both!" Three shouted, leaning up into the space between Seven and One. "At least have some interesting conversation for me to eavesdrop on! Camille is sleeping, and I can't play cards backwards, but by God I will have some entertainment! Not fucking interrogative _silence_!"

"No, fuck you!" One shouted back joyfully.

" _You_ fuck you!"

* * *

"Here." Seven tossed a dog biscuit into One's waiting hand, and watched as he fed it to Wally the dog, who was practically on top of him as they laid there on the floor together. Seven shook his head, smiling, as he screwed the lid back on the jar of dog biscuits and returned it to the shelf. He remembered what Four had told him when he had first asked about One: _He loves Wally the dog. He's obsessed with this_ Beaver _show. I think he's an orphan, actually. We've got a little bet on, if you want to put some money in._ Seven had asked about Wally before, but of course, he hadn't gotten any answers.

Seven turned to the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer. He popped the lids off on the countertop one by one, then sat one down on the floor beside One's head.

"Cheers," One said, by way of thanks, as Seven sipped his. It was cool and refreshing in the heat of the desert. He watched One snag a nearby toy and start a game of Tug-of-War with Wally. "So," he said after a minute. "Rovach said he recognized you."

"Oh, not again," One complained, shaking the stuffed frog and Wally's head.

"What? I haven't asked you about this before."

"No, but you've asked me about many things before." The note of exasperation in his tone was clear. "Many, many things."

"Well, maybe I wouldn't ask you so many questions if you'd just answer them once in a while."

"Uh-huh. Sure." One successfully yanked the frog out of Wally's mouth, and held it high up in the air. Wally jumped for it.

"Rovach said he recognized you from the opera," Seven said, continuing relentlessly onward. "So you attended the same show as him once?"

Wally snatched the frog from One's grip this time. One shrugged. "If that's what he said."

Seven let out a huff of annoyed laughter. "Okay," he said. "Dodge all you want. One of these days, you're gonna tell me something."

* * *

" _I told you to fucking leave!_ " One sounded furious, or as furious as it was possible to sound while whispering. His silhouette stumbled down the moonlit corridor towards Seven.

"Yeah, you did," Seven whispered back, striding quickly to meet One. "But you didn't honestly think we'd do that, did you?" Seven asked. His insides tightened further as he saw One trail along the wall for a couple steps, and then slump inelegantly to the floor. _Shit._

Seven ran to close the distance between them, and knelt on the cold cement in front of One. The billionaire had some kind of cloth pressed to his middle. Even in the dark, Seven could make out the blood that seeped from beneath it. Cursing quietly, he grabbed One's shoulders and steadied him against the wall. "How bad?" he asked.

But One wasn't finished with him. "You!" he hissed, pointing a wavering, uncoordinated finger in Seven's face. "You... you fucking..." he struggled to find an insult through the haze of pain and, apparently, rage.

"How bad?" Seven asked again, ignoring him.

" _Insubordinate!_ " One whisper-shouted, having finally landed on a word.

"Yes, okay, I'm an insubordinate," Seven agreed quickly. "Now how bad is it?" He reached forward to grab at the bloodied cloth One was dutifully keeping pinned to himself, hoping to at least get a glimpse at the wound beneath if One refused to tell him anything. But One used to his free hand to shove him away with surprising strength. That was good, at least.

"I'll live," One said shortly, glaring at Seven. "But I'd slow you guys down. You need to leave while you still can."

"We're not leaving without you, and there's not a damn thing you can say to make us do otherwise." He must have conveyed his seriousness in his tone, because One let out a stream of successive curses and then rested his head back against the wall with a resigned sigh.

"Good." Seven nodded, satisfied. "Amelia's on the way. She'll just do a quick patch-up to get you on your feet again, and then we'll leave. It won't take long. And we'll _all_ get out of here."

One said nothing, which was at least better than active resistance. The fight seemed to have gone out of him, but Seven wasn't sure if that was because he had been persuaded, or because his injury was really starting to get to him. It _was_ bleeding a lot; the blood had saturated a good portion of his shirt and was forming a little pool on the floor beneath him. Seven wondered again what the injury was like, because ' _I'll live_ ' wasn't really a helpful answer.

"Keep the pressure on that." Seven reached a hand forward, but One batted it away impatiently.

"I got it, I got it," he hissed, voice laced with pain.

Seven drew his arm back, then clenched his fists tightly at his sides, itching for something to do, some way to help. But One was stubborn. And Amelia was on the way. So he sighed bitterly and moved to sit beside One, leaning back against the wall, too. The billionaire's labored breathing echoed down the dark corridor.

"Hey, you know," One said breathlessly. "I, uh... I used to play the piano." He muffled a groan. "In middle school."

Seven sat up and stared at him blankly.

"And I... liked it," One finished.

Seven continued to watch him dumbly for a moment. "What?"

"Yeah." One nodded quickly. Then he looked down and pressed the cloth harder into his middle. His already colorless face blanched further in the dim moonlight.

Seven studied him, at a loss. "Why are you telling me this?"

One made an odd, jerky movement, like he had attempted to shrug and then immediately thought better of it. "Guess I'd rather... tell you some useless facts... than focus on all this fucking blood pumping out of me, thanks." He took a measured breath, and then met eyes with Seven. "Besides." He nodded down the hall the way Seven had come, in the general direction of their team. Their family. The Cleavers. A mischievous smile found its way onto his taut features. "They'll never believe you," he said.

Seven cursed. One was absolutely right.


End file.
